


hold on tight, this ride is a wild one

by hetzi_clutch



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Reunion, also slight thirteen/yaz or at least its implied, and the doctor isn't quite over clara, clara is still not over the doctor, listen i just love clara oswald and the doctor okay, romance but not in the strictly romantic sense, ugh i just miss her
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-23
Updated: 2019-01-23
Packaged: 2019-10-14 20:30:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17515400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hetzi_clutch/pseuds/hetzi_clutch
Summary: Four times Clara almost jogs the Doctor's memory, and one time she doesn't have to.Or, four times Clara almost rips the universe apart, and one time the universe just does it herself.





	hold on tight, this ride is a wild one

**Author's Note:**

> this is me coping with Clara's departure, AKA I have too many emotions about the Doctor forgetting Clara and I had to let it out somehow. This is my first time writing for anyone other than Team TARDIS, so I hope my characterization isn't too far off.
> 
> Oh, and title is a lyric taken from All Time Low's 'Missing You'.

They say a memory, jogged enough times, will come back to itself.

Clara’s never heard of any actual psychological theory supporting that, so she just has to hope it’s not true. 

At first, she finds it nearly impossible to stay away. It’s not even a conscious thing, really (though maybe in a way, it is), except that when Ashildr looks to her and asks where she wants to go next, Clara’s first thought is what the Doctor would say. Whether he’d snort at her choice, and immediately suggest something better. Or raise his eyebrows and smile slightly, and then insult the shape of her face so she’d know she’s made the right decision. 

Usually she just pulls a name from the long catalog of places he’d mentioned, places that they’d never gotten around to, which means, therefore, places that she knows he’s been. 

And Ashildr always calls her on it too, and reprimands her, which means Clara pulls a face and denies it completely, and Ashildr doesn’t believe her for one second. They usually end up going there anyway. Ashildr is not the Doctor, after all. She doesn’t have very many rules. And she doesn’t know enough about time and space to care that much if it’s being ripped apart.

(Neither does Clara, really, which doesn’t bode well for the cosmos. They really shouldn’t be time-traveling at all, and yet somehow the universe is still holding together, for the most part, so she figures it’s decided to humor them.)

They nearly do end up ripping time and space apart though, and that’s because after twenty years Clara’s stupid, universe threatening gamble, actually pans out. She’s a little bit surprised, but not really, because there are only so many places the Doctor has mentioned, and she’s been to nearly all of them, and there are only so many ways a die can fall. 

They’re lassoing the clouds of Troon, partly for community service and partly for fun, when she turns around and literally runs into him. Her head jerks up in surprise and she falls back, and her silver reel slips from her fingers. Her cloud escapes.

“You lost one,” he says, and doesn’t smile, because that’s not his thing. She does, because the alternate is to immediately start crying, because of course it isn’t his thing, he’s got those stupid eyebrows, smiling would ruin the point of them.

“Yeah, I suppose I did,” she says, and looks up at him, and her stomach is doing somersaults of happiness because, not only did she manage to run into the Doctor, but she managed to run into _hers_. “Guess you’ll have to make up for it, then.”

“Oh, me?” those famous eyebrows raise in surprise. “Oh I don’t think so. Terrible at it. I’m only here because they caught me taking one of their thunderstorms out for a spin. Told them he’d wanted it, but they wouldn’t believe me. They don’t know they can talk, you see.”

“Well, you certainly know how,” is the only reply she can get out, because there are so many things she desperately wants to tell him, none of which would be good for the fabric of time and space. “You here with anyone?”

He gives her a strange look, slightly affronted. “Why would I be here with someone?”

Oh, she’s gone and done it now, Clara realizes. Gone and stuck her foot in her mouth. She’d meant to ask, in a sort of roundabout way, if he has a new companion, but of course it doesn’t sound like that at all. “No, I meant—I am here with someone, actually. A date.”

“Oh, um—congratulations. That is the proper salutation for such a thing, isn’t it?” The mention of a date, and the sudden connotation of romance, which he’s failed to grasp the first time, send him, as usual, scrambling for an escape route from the conversation. “Not that I really get it, but then I don’t usually pay enough attention to uninteresting things to, er, _get them._ Nice to meet you though, um—?”

“Cl—arence,” she stumbles, and curses herself internally. Too close, it’s too close. She can almost feel the universe starting to fray. And sure enough, confusion flashes in the Doctor’s eye.

“Clarence, hmm?” he looks her up and down, frowning. “Strange. I knew somebody named—oh, no, that was a Clara. Nevermind. I think. Anyway, good day to you Clarence, you really should get that cloud though.”

He points to her cloud, now drawing shouts as people notice it, drifting free with the lasso dangling to the ground, and Clara winces. Those lassos are expensive. Expensive enough that she might just have to cut the day short and make a break with Ashildr back to the TARDIS. “Nice to meet you too—”

But then she turns around again and he’s gone, and it shouldn’t hurt as fresh as it did the first time, but it does anyway.

————

The next time she sees him, it’s from a distance, which is probably for the better. And it’s not even her Doctor, but her other Doctor, the young one with the floppy hair and the bow tie whom she sort of fell in love with (oh, who’s she kidding? She was in love with her last Doctor too, she’ll alway be in love with the Doctor, every single one of them). This one is a fresh twist of the knife though, because she didn’t _mean_ to accidentally meet him this time around. She and Ashildr are enjoying what should be a calm day (she’s good at ruining those) at a planet-wide market, and she doesn’t expect to see people sprinting through the crowd, so of course she stops and stares.

And it’s him. 

He’s young and dashing, his hair bouncing and blazer flapping as he leaps over tables and upends stacks of merchandise, leaving chaos in his wake and a trail of angry merchants, all waving their fists. And then, of course, the thing that’s after him comes running as well, and all the merchants forget about the Doctor, because this creature is _huge;_ six-legged and hairy, with plenty of teeth and more than a couple horns, and clearly ravenous. The thing crashes through a stall and roars, sending people screaming. Clara is entranced.

Not by the creature itself, for the thing is big and ugly and, thanks to the viscous liquid dripping from its maw, sort of disgusting, but because of the scene. It’s a tableau in motion, a portrait of the Doctor’s life playing out on the screen before her, only she is here and he is _right there,_ and actually heading in their direction, laughing as he runs, pausing to call “sorry!” over his shoulder, and if she doesn’t move, just stands there, in another second he’ll barrel right into her—

Ashildr grabs the back of her shirt and drags her to the side, just as he sprints through the space where she had been standing, a moment before.

“I wasn’t going to get involved,” she hisses, still stumbling—she’s surprisingly strong, Ashildr. “I was just watching.”

“Right.” She’s standing over her and crossing her arms, clearly not buying it. “Just watching and waiting for him to crash into you.”

“Oh, shut up,” she grumbles, but doesn’t add anything more, because she’s right. She regains her balance, and looks up to where the Doctor had blown past, craning her neck to see if she can still catch a glimpse—

But he’s disappeared, lost in the maze of stalls and tables. The creature, however, is still close by, roaring his displeasure at the fleeing crowds.

Clara wilts in disappointment. Ashildr takes her hand, and says nothing but gives it a comforting squeeze. After a moment, they turn and head back to the TARDIS.

(The creature roars again, and they move a little faster.)

————

It’s another several years before she meets him again, and this one nearly does rip the universe apart.

It’s because she has to go and do the one thing she should never, ever do, which also happens to be the one thing she’ll never stop doing, given the chance.

She goes and saves his life.

(But of course, she reminds herself, fleeing back to the TARDIS as the entire planet cracks in half behind her, he was the one who had to go and need saving in the first place.)

It’s her Doctor again—that is, her latest Doctor, the eyebrows, though this time they’re not having the usual effect because he’s been knocked unconscious and tied up to a pole, though his face still manages a slight glare in spite of all that.

There’s no excuse for her this time either, because their meeting is no accident. That isn’t to say that she arranged it, but rather that she knows the Doctor about as well as anybody has ever known him, more or less. So when she happens upon a plan to trap him into becoming a living sacrifice, she simply decides to stick around. The planet is a volcanic rock, and its people have made a thing out of capturing off-worlders and tossing them into their biggest volcano, in order to appease the god which would otherwise destroy them. Or so the story says. The locals haven’t skipped a sacrifice in order to find out.

And now they want the Doctor, because, as it always goes with the Doctor, they believe his long lifespan and eons of experience will keep their god quiet for millenia to come. It’s almost as if they’re trying to turn a better leaf, Clara supposes, and she could be happy for them, if only they weren’t trying to kill her best friend in the entire universe.

The problem is that the Doctor can never refuse a good trap, especially one stupid enough to look like a trap. So when this society of off-world trapping, volcanic god appeasing, locals beam out a distress signal for the Doctor, and only the Doctor, Clara knows that he can’t resist. Part of it is because of that voice in his head, the one which always asks _what if it’s real?_ The rest of it is just because he can’t resist sticking his nose in things, particularly stupid, dangerous things which he has no business sticking his nose into.

So Clara has to go and save him.

It’s not even a choice. It's barely a decision. She justifies it to herself by the fact that she’s already on the planet, didn’t even mean to fall into the situation really, and only happened to hear about the plan when she snuck into the command room. Besides, Ashildr isn’t even on-planet to talk her out of it (volcano sacrifices aren’t her thing, apparently). All of those excuses fall flat, even in her own ears, but nobody else is around to hear them so she gives it a pass.

The trap plays out exactly as Clara expects. The locals draw the Doctor in with suspiciously flattering praise, and the Doctor goes along with it because he has an irritating faith in his ability to talk or think his way out of any situation. Of course, he fails to consider that the locals wouldn’t be inclined to talk, or indeed, give him time to think before clubbing him in the head, so Clara watches with a pang in her heart and, okay, a small laugh in her throat as they lash his hands to a pole and leave him there. 

(The laugh is only there because she knows she’s going to get him out of this one.)

She waits until the locals are drawn away by a celebratory feast, the Doctor still down for the count, and then sneaks out and begins her plan. It’s not much of one; it involves untying his hands and dragging him away, hoping against hope that he doesn’t wake up before she gets him to his TARDIS, which she knows to be parked close by.

It takes longer than she thinks. Minutes pass, then turn into half an hour, and jeez, did he really park the TARDIS so far away? She’s considering just popping over to grab her own TARDIS and pilot it back to pick him up, but she’s still shaky with steering through time rather than space, so she decides to gut it out.

Until the ground starts to rumble.

Funny, but in the entirety of her own half-baked plan, Clara had forgotten to consider that the Doctor might have had one of his own. She freezes at the first rumble, then stumbles as the ground begins to heave. The Doctor’s TARDIS is in sight; she shouldn’t be stopping. But she can’t help it. There’s something digging at the back of her mind, something she’s missing.

So, with the Doctor’s TARDIS a measly hundred meters away, Clara drops the Doctor in the dirt, squats down, and begins to search his coat pockets.

She finds the device almost immediately, and recognizes it just as fast. It’s simple technology, even a little crude, but effective; a flash freeze disk. A miniature ice age compressed into a tiny chip, activated by nothing more than a hard knock and a little heat. A very hard knock. 

Clara stares at the thing, and curses. It occurs to her how long it must have been since she’s traveled with the Doctor, for she’s forgotten one cardinal rule; the Doctor always, always has a plan. And if he doesn’t, he’s already thought one up quick enough that it makes no difference.

And Clara has just made a very big mistake.

She shoves the chip into her pocket and drags the Doctor the rest of the way, as fast as she can. She’s panting by the time she heaves him into his TARDIS and slams the door, and the ground is shaking hard enough that she can’t find her balance, and her own TARDIS is nearly a quarter-mile away, which means there’s no way she’ll make it. 

She takes one last look at the quaking ground, and thinks, _screw it._ She takes off running.

She reaches the doors of her TARDIS just as the ground fully cleaves in two behind her, sending trees and rocks and anything else (there isn’t much else) tumbling into the depths. Clara manages to jump inside just in time, and hears the satisfying click of the door behind her. Safe. She nearly hadn’t been.

It’s enough to give her pause for a few minutes. She sits on the TARDIS floor, and reaches up to feel the tattoo at the back of her neck, which she knows is still there, though she can’t _really_ feel the difference, and it occurs to her that even after decades of traveling around time and space, she’s still not ready to throw in the towel. Not yet, at least. She wonders if she'll ever be.

She considers this for a few minutes, and reaches no satisfying conclusion. 

Later, she pilots her TARDIS above the mouth of the biggest volcano on the planet, and drops the chip in. She doesn’t wait to see its effects, but flies away immediately. Later, when Ashildr asks about the planet, she says it was rather boring actually, she’d expected something better.

———

For the next few years, she makes sure to stay out of the Doctor’s way. The last encounter shook her; it reminded her just how long it had been, how much she had forgotten in her years traveling. What had Ashildr said? A human-sized memory isn’t enough to fit an eternal life. The thought that she could forget her travels with the Doctor is terrifying. The proof that she’s already forgotten more than she realizes sends her reeling.

And it was dangerous, she can’t deny that. The Doctor always has a plan, only she’d forgotten, and nearly mucked it up completely. She could’ve killed everybody on that planet, as well as herself, and the Doctor besides. It’s a stark reminder of just how human she is, really. Not a Time Lord, not even a human genius, but just Clara Oswald, a school teacher. Who doesn’t work with the Doctor, anymore. 

So for a while, she stays well enough away. And it works, in a fashion, because the next time she sees the Doctor, it’s neither of hers. It’s not an old version either, because she knows them all. It’s a new one, and _that_ hurts more than anything.

This one is loud as day, and makes her presence known in such a way that Clara can’t really be blamed for paying attention. She and Ashildr are at the opening of the first museum to cover all of human history, something she’s been trying to get Ashildr to go to for ages (”Why would I want to see that? I have most of it written down, anyway”). She’s just inspecting the twenty-first century exhibit, when an exuberant voice sounds behind her, and her blood turns cold.

“Well, fam, what d’you think? All of human history and here’s your bit!”

Clara freezes, because she’d know that voice anywhere. The slight boast, the undertone of wonder, the showmanship of it all—it’s the Doctor. Only it’s not her Doctor. Not hers at all. 

Slowly, she begins to turn around, just as another voice chimes in to confirm her suspicions. “Hey Doc, are you really sure we’re allowed to look at this stuff?”

“Yeah, isn’t it sort of a paradox?”

“Nah, you lot won’t cause any huge developments in the twenty-first century. I checked.”

Clara turns around just in time to catch the slight fall on the face of the pretty, dark-skinned girl, but doesn’t have time to ponder that, because her eyes are all for the Doctor.

She’s a woman this time around, slight and blond-haired and younger, with a haircut she clearly regenerated into. She’s got a proper flapping coat now, and trousers that stop above her ankles and worn down boots, and Clara can’t see more than that because she’s walking backwards in front of her _three new_ companions, and also because Clara is starting to cry.

She ducks behind the Bean, which survived twenty-first Chicago to make it to the museum, and sniffles, trying to hide her tears. It’s stupid and lame, and totally unlike her, except maybe it isn’t. She’s never been particularly easy to make cry, but she’s also never been stoic enough to hide her tears, which is exactly what lands her here today, choking back sobs behind an enormous silver bean statue which was originally called Cloud Gate, but whose name has long since been lost to time. Just like Clara’s, in a way. Lost to new companions.

“Oh, shut up,” she whispers to herself, because that’s the most childish thought she’s had in decades, and she wants to think she’s grown out of such things, but apparently with the Doctor—as it’s always been with the Doctor—anything goes. 

Still, she stays there a few minutes longer, listening to the Doctor go on about the twenty-first century to her enraptured audience ( _three_ companions), and feels something new and strange rise up in her chest, something she hasn’t felt in a very long time.

It’s jealousy. 

And once she puts a word to the feeling, it’s as if she’s shaken the soda bottle and taken the cap off. Suddenly she’s burning up with it, white hot and trembling, and all those years of traveling and avoiding and time that _shouldn’t have been cut short_ comes crashing down upon her, and it’s enough to send her spinning. Her own stupidity comes roaring back in her ears, chops itself down to a blistering point on the back of her neck, and Clara sags against the Bean, her eyes sliding shut. For the first time in a while, she resists the urge to feel the numbers. There’s nothing to feel, of course, but she could also try and get a glimpse of them, because she’s hiding behind a giant silvery _bean_ which might as well be a mirror, and it would be incredibly easy to twist halfway around and look, or try to. 

She doesn’t.

Instead she leans against it for a very long time, and tries not to listen to the Doctor’s voice, which is cheery this time around, but a little fake as well, which means that her companions must not be very close to her, or at least not yet. Something about this makes Clara feel better, and she starts to calm down a little bit, enough to get her breathing under control. In fact she’s just about to make a dash for the door (not like the Doctor would recognize her, anyway), when somebody comes around the side of the Bean, stops, and stares.

“Uh, hey, are you alright?” Clara looks up into the eyes of the dark-skinned, pretty girl, the one who’d been looking at the Doctor with adoration in her gaze, and Clara’s gut twists. It’s unfair, and stupid, and _human_ (oh, how she can hear _her_ Doctor laughing), but she can’t help it. This girl has gorgeous eyes and a smile she can tell would be brilliant if she were wearing it, and she’s exactly the kind of girl any incarnation of the Doctor would love to impress. 

“Um…ma’am?” the girl’s expression falters, her eyes crinkling with worry. Clara realizes that she still hasn’t answered her.

“Ouch, do I really look that old?” she tries to be funny, but she can tell it’s not working, because her voice cracks and the girl is still looking at her as if she’s made of glass. Quickly, Clara brings a finger up to touch her cheek and—yep, there it is. A tear, one of probably many. She can imagine her eyes are puffy and red as well. She wipes it away as the girl takes another step closer.

“Sorry, that’s not—it’s just, you looked like you were sorta…”

“Bawling my eyes out?” she quirks her mouth into a grin, only slightly bitter, and is relieved when the girl smiles in return. She was right; it’s beautiful. 

“Well…yeah.” The girl fidgets, unsure of what to say. Clara watches her for a moment, and then clears her throat and straightens up. “It’s nothing, really. Just…well, just ran into somebody I’d rather not. You know how it goes.”

From the look in her eyes, the girl really doesn’t, but she winces and nods anyway. “Oh.…old boyfriend?”

“Girlfriend,” Clara corrects her, and the girls’ eyes widen, which she ignores to peer around her toward the opposite side of the Bean. “Sorry, but didn’t you come in with someone?”

It sounds a bit suspicious, as if she’s keeping tabs on the girl (which isn’t too far off from the truth), but she’s too emotionally fraught to care. She catches sight of the Doctor, standing in front of the rest of her little ensemble as she gestures at an enormous portrait of New York in 2057. Her face is towards Clara now, and she can make out sparkling eyes and an enormous grin sitting on a pretty face, younger than her last one (or was it her last one?), but not quite as young as Clara’s first Doctor. She seems to be enjoying herself, as do her companions, minus the girl standing nervously by Clara. 

The knife in her gut twists, just a little bit more.

“Yeah, you’re looking at them, actually,” the girl says, drawing Clara’s attention. Her expression has downshifted into slight suspicion, and she’s starting to make some sort of connection between Clara’s clear emotional stress and her unabashed staring at the Doctor. “Do you maybe…?”

“Ooh, there she is!” Clara points, and thanks every single god up there as Ashildr walks into the exhibit, gives it one look around, eyebrow raised, and turns to walk out again. “Sorry, I really am, but I’ve got to go!”

“But—” the girl is clearly at a loss, and as Clara moves to dart out from behind the Bean, she calls out behind her, “I thought you didn’t want to see her?”

“Changed my mind!” Clara tosses this over her shoulder as she jogs the short space between the entrance and the Bean, catching Ashildr just as she steps out into the hallway. Ashildr turns, and then gives Clara a smile. “I was right, wasn’t I? Boring century, barely wrote a thing about it in my diaries.”

“We’ve got to go.” Clara grabs her hand and pulls her on ahead, trying unsuccessfully to get out of earshot, before— 

“Yaz? Yaz, where’d you go? I was just telling Ryan and Graham about the mid-century uprisings—”

Clara can’t help wincing, and prays Ashildr doesn’t notice. She does, of course. Instantly.

“Is that the Doctor?”

Clara, still yanking her along by one hand, cringes. “Maybe.”

“You didn’t talk to her, did you?”

Clara stops short, turns around and scowls. “Why do you think I’m always going out of my way to rip the universe apart?”

Ashildr yanks her hand out of Clara’s and plants herself in the middle of the hallway. She crosses her arms, and matches her scowl. “Cos you are. It’s honestly a headache at this point, I don’t know why I don’t just drop you off at the raven myself.”

Clara scoffs. “Please, you only half-know how to fly the TARDIS.”

Ashildr raises an eyebrow. “You don’t know any more than I do.”

“So we each pilot half a TARDIS, together make it a whole. Perfect teamwork.”

Ashildr glowers, but there’s no bite behind it. In fact, it’s very likely she’s trying not to laugh. “Is this your roundabout way of saying you talked to her and the universe is about to implode?”

Clara bites her lip, then drops her gaze and sighs. “No. And I don’t want to. She’s…regenerated. It’s not the same.”

She delivers the line so well that she almost buys it herself. It’s unfortunate, therefore, that Ashildr is not her, and so doesn’t swallow even a single word. She studies Clara for a moment, and then shrugs. “As long as the universe doesn’t implode. I’ve actually grown to like it quite a lot.”

Clara smiles, and it’s only slightly pained. “Me too.”

————

The museum was the nail in the coffin, as far as Clara is concerned. She’s done going out of her way to find the Doctor (even if, technically, she’s _not_ ), and she’s done risking the fabric of time and space. The Doctor does that enough on his—her—own, and Clara has been traveling around the universe for enough years by now to know when she’s being stupid.

(And maybe, just maybe, there’s something about seeing the new Doctor, with her _three new_ companions, that puts a bitter taste in Clara’s mouth. A physical sign that their years together have been timestamped and written off, that, despite the adventures they had, Clara will live on as no more than a blurred-out memory in a mere handful of the Doctor’s years. Barely a ripple in his timeline—or not even that, now.)

And that’s it, isn’t it? Because she’s nothing to the Doctor now, whereas the Doctor is, and will always be, everything to Clara. So she packs up, and moves on, now that she knows for sure that he has (though that’s not fair on him, she argues with herself, he had to regenerate _sometime_ ), and pretends as if traveling around the universe is all she’s ever wanted, when really all she ever wanted was to travel around the universe with him.

Or her, though _she_ doesn’t know Clara anymore, doesn’t know her at all.

And then, of course, the universe decides to tear _itself_ apart.

Clara and Ashildr don’t expect to get caught up in a war against the Daleks. As far as they knew, actually, the Daleks were as good as gone from the universe—or at least, the Doctor was as effective an exterminator as could be. They’re supposed to be all wiped out with the Time War, but they’re like cockroaches, with a knack for springing from cracks in the fabric of reality. In this case, they’ve managed to escape whatever pocket reality the Doctor has stuffed them into, and they’re busy waging war on a tiny corner of the galaxy Trineas, a place so backwater that most of the galaxy isn’t even aware the Daleks have returned. 

Clara and Ashildr certainly aren’t. They came to that little corner, so small its only designation is Trineas XiC, because they want to get away from the rest of the bustling universe, and Ashildr heard they had good campsites. Good campsites, some friendly locals, and not much else. But when they land the TARDIS, right in the middle of what was probably once a beautiful clearing and is now a scorched and barren patch of ground, they’re immediately caught in the crossfire of a skirmish between the local Trineans and the Daleks. 

The Daleks win, as per usual, but the Trineans manage to retreat, and take Clara with them. 

“Don’t go after your friend, or you’ll die!” they tell her, weapons fixed, and she looks back because, funny, she thought Ashildr was right behind her. She actually turns out to be in their TARDIS, or at least somebody is, because it’s currently wheezing out of existence. Clara sighs, and turns back to face the Trineans. Trust Ashildr to think smart. She’ll get the TARDIS away from the Daleks, then come back to rescue Clara. 

At least, Clara’s assuming that’s her plan.

“Yeah, take me prisoner,” she says crossly and sticks her hands in the air. “I’ll come quietly, don’t worry.”

They eye her nervously, a few glancing in shock between herself and the spot their TARDIS has recently vacated, and she resists the urge to huff. “Are you going to take me prisoner, or not?”

“Of course!” the leader says, but even he hesitates and glances past her before marching up to slap a pair of handcuffs across her wrists. She gives him an acerbic look, and he shudders. “As if we need another one of you.”

His words, barely above a whisper, throw Clara for a loop. “Sorry, what?”

But he’s back in leader-mode, now that she’s got handcuffs and is making no sign of fighting back. He straightens up and gives her a glare, which only slightly falters when she returns it. “Quiet, prisoner! We still don’t know you’re not working with the Daleks.”

She’s tempted to respond, but he turns her around and pushes his weapon between her shoulder blades, and little too roughly, so she just bites her tongue and shakes her head. It’s a mystery, sort of, but she’s not sure she has the energy to get involved. The threat of the Daleks is prickling on the back of her neck, right where her tattoo sits patiently, and she’s not sure she wants to risk however much remains of her life. Or rather, she’s not sure she wants to risk Ashildr’s wrath when she goes off and does something stupid, because Ashildr, despite her cold demeanor and off jokes, will always come after her. And if Clara is uncertain about risking her own life, she’s fairly sure about not wanting to risk Ashildr’s.

(And she stuffs down the voice at the back of her head, the one that pipes up dependably with a ‘you would’ve run straight into the Daleks for the Doctor’, because it’s true, yes, but more importantly, it _hurts._ And she’s not young and reckless anymore. Or at least, she doesn’t have that Time Lord intellect that can afford for her to be _old_ and reckless.)

They throw her into a cell with—surprisingly—occupants. It makes sense after a beat of confusion, because there are no other cells, which means the Trineans don’t take prisoners, because _of course,_ who would want a Dalek as a prisoner? 

They push her through the cell door none too gently, and she turns around to spit out a biting remark, only to hear a gasp of surprise behind her, and—oh. She knows that voice. Not very well, yes, but that incident at the museum has been seared into her brain for the last seventeen years. She swallows the biting remark with slight regret (it had been a pretty good one), and turns to face the other occupants.

And of course it’s the girl from the museum, along with her friends, a young man and an old one, and no Doctor. Her heart falls in disappointment at this, and then leaps into her throat, because that could only mean—

“Where’s the Doctor?”

The girl leaps to her feet, an impressive feat considering her hands are still tied. “See? I told you! That’s the girl from the museum and she—she knows the Doctor!”

Couldn’t have been long for them, then. Clara grimaces. 

“Alright then, Yaz. We believe you.” The younger guy looks up at her, but makes no move to climb to his feet. He’s got dark skin and trusting eyes, and the kind of face that knows how to reassure. She likes him, she decides. The other guy just looks grandfatherly. 

But the younger guy points his chin at Clara, and says, “So you know the Doctor then? Don’t happen to have her on speed dial, I suppose?”

_I used to,_ part of Clara whispers, but she swallows that voice and says, “We go back a bit, you could say. But I don’t understand—why are you here without her?”

_She needs someone,_ that same incorrigible voice pipes up. Or maybe she doesn’t this time around, maybe she’s learned to be alone, but—no. Clara’s seen every single incarnation of the Doctor, and she knows. The Doctor can’t be alone, not with the Daleks.

And then the grandfatherly man starts talking, and confirms her worst fears. “Well she went off to confront them, didn’t she? They threw her in with us too, but she managed to convince them she could end the war. So they pulled her out and sent an envoy.”

“You—” She’s scarcely able to get the words out. “And you didn’t go with her? You let her go alone?”

Now they’re all looking at her in confusion, but it’s the girl who steps forward, eyes defensive, hands as much on her hips as they could be despite being tied behind her back. “She wouldn’t let us. But she’ll be fine, we’ve—we've seen her fight a Dalek before. She’ll win, she always does.”

And it’s that utter, absolute, _faith_ that sends Clara laughing, harshly, practically doubled over because she has to be. The only alternative is to start screaming at them. “You—you left her _alone_ with the _Daleks._ And you’re worried about her _safety?_ ”

The girl is taken aback by her sudden outburst, her defensive posture dropping completely. “Well, yeah. ‘Course we are. But we trust her.”

“Yeah, I bet you do.” Clara straightens up and looks at the girl, who’s staring at her (they’re all staring at her), and doesn’t even find the energy in her to be angry. Instead, she just feels pity. They’re too new, they don’t know the Doctor at all, they haven’t really seen her yet, all the different shades of her. They don’t know that she needs to be stopped. “But you shouldn’t be worried for the Doctor. She’ll get out fine, she always does. You should be worried about what she’s going to do.”

Now they’re really baffled, staring at her like she’s just given them an unsolved Rubik’s cube and declared it cracked. The girl, especially, is looking at Clara with disbelief that’s bordering on open suspicion, and that’s when Clara realizes that it doesn’t matter. These companions, they can’t go after the Doctor, at least not yet, because they _still_ don’t know. And now, in the middle of a Dalek invasion, is not the time to test the strength of their loyalty.

“Alright,” she decides, and spins on her heel. She starts to wiggle against her bonds as she presses up against the clear glass which constitutes the cell door. She can only hope it’s not soundproof.

“Guards!” she cries, as loud as she can, and waits a second, straining to hear some movement down the hall. After a moment, she catches a hesitant footstep. “Guards! I need to talk to somebody! It’s urgent!”

“What are you doing?” the younger guy asks, and she answers without turning around.

“I’m going to go save the Doctor.”

“Hang on, I thought you said she doesn’t need saving?” the girl says, and Clara doesn’t have to look to know she’s got her hands on her hips again.

“I’m not saving her from the Daleks.” She can finally hear footsteps pounding in the hall, getting louder with each passing second, so she turns back to the companions, unable to resist a grin. It’s a wolf’s grin, all teeth and backed up by more than a little fear, because Clara knows that she’s doing something stupid, completely and utterly insane, and god, Ashildr is going to _kill_ her.

But she says it anyway, and watches them reel back in confusion, and, _finally,_ slightly fearful understanding.

“I’m going to save the Doctor from herself.”

*

She doesn’t let the companions come with her, mainly because she knows if she accidentally gets them killed she’ll never forgive herself, and also because she doesn’t trust them yet. They might intervene at the wrong moment, or worse, let the Doctor do whatever it is she’s thinking about doing, and Clara might not know what that is yet, but it can’t be good if this Doctor won’t even let her companions witness it.

So she smooth-talks the guards, and ignores the companions’ combined protests, and ten minutes later she’s uncuffed and unarmed thanks to her staunch refusal, and slinking over into Dalek territory flanked by two Trinean soldiers. They look just as nervous as she feels, or maybe looks, because she’s not so certain she’s that good at hiding it. She tries anyway, though.

“Hey buck up, boys,” she whispers as they duck behind a bush. Lefty is nearly quaking in his boots. “We’re heading to the safest place in the galaxy, you know.”

“What are you talking about?” Righty hisses, and she smiles. 

“By the Doctor’s side, of course.”

They manage to triangulate the signal coming from the peace envoy, and sneak in with a surprising amount of ease, a fluke which turns out to make sense the moment they reach the source of the signal.

For one, the defenses they passed through have all been disabled, something they realize with one glance around the room the signal is coming from. It’s the center of security for this particular fortress, with eyes and guns on every inch of its territory—or at least, it used to have eyes and guns everywhere. The peace envoy, which is looking less and less like a peace envoy, has gone through and taken them all out.

As for the peace envoy, they’re all dead. This becomes immediately obvious when Clara and her troops break into the security center—the pneumatic door actually wide open—and see the bodies littering the ground. There are a few dead Daleks as well, but not enough to suggest an even fight. 

And the Doctor is nowhere in sight. 

The transmitter is still beeping, sending out the signal they’d been following. Clara stamps on it with her boot, just because she’s frustrated, and also because she knows one stomp is not enough to take out the technology. And sure enough, it keeps beeping.

“We have to follow the Doctor,” she says after several moments of dead silence. Lefty and Righty look at her with twin expressions of incredulity.

“Are you kidding?” Lefty asks. “They’re all dead, as well as your Doctor! I told them, I did, and they didn’t listen. The Daleks don’t do peace.”

Righty is nodding in concurrence, but Clara just throws them both a grim look. “Oh, but trust me, the Doctor isn’t dead. And unlike the Daleks, she does peace. And after what happened here, she’ll probably kill everything this side of the planet to get it.”

Righty and Lefty—she really should get their real names—look at her, and then at each other. Righty gulps.

“What do you mean by that?”

Clara levels him with a hard, no-nonsense look, the kind she used to pull on her rowdy third period students. It worked then, and it works now. 

“It means we better find her, before she goes off and does something stupid.”

It doesn’t take them long to agree. Only then Clara is momentarily stumped. With the Doctor (presumably) in the Daleks’ custody, she probably didn’t go ahead and disable the rest of the security in the building—and one look at the screens is enough to confirm her suspicions. It would take a while to disable them all herself, and for once, time is not something she has a lot of.

And then she gazes around the room, at the dead Trineans and the few dead Daleks, and a memory hits her. Skaro, ages ago, and Missy nearly getting her killed, multiple times, and a disguise that actually fooled the Daleks.

“We have to get inside the Daleks,” she says, and both Righty and Lefty blanch. It’s almost scary, how well they time it. 

“You can’t be serious,” Lefty says, and Righty just shakes his head. “That’ll never work, how can it possibly—”

“Oh, it’ll work.” She flashes them a charming grin, the kind she wore a lot more around the Doctor, and finds she’s missed it. “Trust me. And besides, inside a Dalek’s casing? Safest place to be right now.”

“How can you know that?” Righty asks. His weapon hangs limp in his hands, and his fingers are trembling. Clara looks him up and down, and a wave of sympathy washes through her. She prays she’s not getting them both killed.

(She’d argued to go alone, but the Trineans hadn’t trusted her enough, and well…there hadn’t been time.)

“Because I’ve done it before.”

She’s got considerably more tech skills this time around (she has picked up _something_ in her years traveling), but she doesn’t make any changes to the Trineans’ casings. She’s too afraid to they’ll say the wrong thing, trip up at the wrong moment. Best to stick to the script, especially since they don’t know it.

But for herself she makes a few adjustments, mainly rewiring the speech circuits. Gives herself the leeway to say whatever she wants, and then, when she climbs inside, uses her newfound freedom of speech to reassure the Trineans. 

“Just follow me, and don’t act suspicious,” she tells them. Somehow, even with stalks for eyes and plungers as weapons, they still manage to cast each other a nervous look. “You both know how Daleks act, so don’t panic. They won’t suspect a thing, promise.”

They can only respond with an “affirmative”, so she hopes that’s what they’re really saying and takes off. They follow her, crowding in a bit too close behind, and don’t ask how she knows where she’s going. Largely because they can’t. She almost wishes they could, however, because it’s rather clever and she sort of wants to share it.

There’s a map she can pull up, once she’s inside the casing, which shows every room in the entire fortress. Only one is unlisted, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what that room might be. And besides, where else would the Doctor convince the Daleks to take her, except the command room?

It doesn’t take them long to find, and when they enter, Clara realizes they’ve stepped right into the middle of a drama, half-played out. The Doctor is pushed up against the wall, hands held high, and talking, talking, talking. Her eyes flick to the door as it opens and Clara comes through, but she doesn’t move, only switches subjects.

“Ah, see you brought reinforcements, did ya? Well it’s not going to help the self-destruct I planted on every one of you. Not to mention your ships. You can shoot me dead for all I care. You’ll just go down with me.”

_Oh, Doctor._ Clara bites her tongue, _hard,_ to keep from shouting at her. No wonder she didn’t want her companions to see this. Her eyes are shining with pain and anger and wild, raging grief, and it’s been years, but Clara still knows the Doctor’s edge when she sees it. It’s a combination of the Daleks, and those bodies back in the security room, and all the hate boiling around her, and Clara can see in the Doctor’s eyes that she’s so, so close to losing it. 

And it’s not even a good plan. Clara can spot the flaws immediately; ships and Daleks exploding, probably in close range, sending shrapnel flying and waves of debris plummeting to the ground, indiscriminate in its target. Turning the planet toxic within hours. 

(A beautiful planet, Ashildr had said. Great for camping.)

It’s a pyrrhic victory, or very nearly. But the Doctor is too blinded by grief and hatred to notice. She can’t find a third option because she’s not even looking. She needs somebody, _something,_ to open her eyes. Make her see.

And that’s where Clara steps in.

The Daleks are crowding the Doctor, pushing her back, and she’s got her sonic pointed, probably ready to set off whatever device she’s planted in them all (which will probably affect her too, come to think of it, but it’s too late to have regrets), when Clara glides forward. They’ve ignored her up to this point, assuming she’s one of them.

Clara opens her mouth to speak, and wonders if this is the action that will finally tear the universe apart. Not that she’d change a thing, because it’s always been like this between the two of them, and the Doctor not knowing her will never make a difference. She’ll always save the Doctor, even if she has to save her from herself, even if doing so will disrupt the fabric of space and time, and even if the lack of recognition in the Doctor’s eyes will tear a hole in her heart the size of the galaxy. A thousand lifetimes, a billion years, and she’ll always save the Doctor.

“MERCY, DOCTOR!”

She screams the word even though she doesn’t have to, and it’s the perfect imitation to make the Doctor pause. Her thumb, about to press down on the correct button on the sonic, slides off. She glances around, wildly, zeroes in on Clara's casing, and that's when she starts shouting.

“MERCY, DOCTOR! MERCY, DOCTOR! MERCY, MERCY, MERCY—”

The other Daleks are looking around as well, and one locks onto her, its plunger glowing dangerously. “YOU DO NOT SPEAK FOR—”

“Yes you do,” the Doctor breathes, still staring at her, even though the Daleks have long since turned away to face this new, internal threat. She gazes at Clara for a moment longer, and then glances down at the hand clutching her sonic, as if seeing it for the first time. “What am I doing? I—”

She looks up again at Clara, and her heart clogs up her throat, because it’s those eyes, the Doctor’s eyes, and she only wishes they could be looking at her, not some ugly casing but _her—_

“You want mercy?” the Doctor says. A smile is creeping up her face, a brilliant, ‘I have an idea’ smile. “I’ll give you mercy!”

She bounds across the room, ignoring the Daleks which have begun to turn on Clara now, only they’re too confused to shoot, yet, and she’s praying that whatever the Doctor is doing, she’s doing it fast, because— 

“THE TRAITOR WILL BE EXTERMINATED!”

“Oh no he won’t!” The Doctor’s eyes are on the command screen, her fingers flying through the air as she manipulates holographic displays. At the sound of her voice the Daleks start to turn back, but they’re still disorganized, confused. They’re not sure who to target, and of course, there’s still the threat of those self-destruct implants. 

“One Dalek asks for mercy, that’s enough for me!” The Doctor gives the display one last swipe and then turns around, flush with victory. She points at Clara with a grin so wide it breaks her heart right in two. “It’s all yours now, mate—can I call you mate? I’ve reprogrammed the command structure across the entire Dalek fleet. You’re the one in charge now, irrevocably. You call the shots.”

She’s smiling still, but Clara can see that nervousness under the grin, the white-knuckled grip on her sonic, though it’s pointed at the ground. She’s hoping, praying she made the right choice. Waiting for Clara to confirm or deny.

Clara swivels around to look at the rest of the Daleks. They’ve stopped calling for her death—they have to. She’s their leader now. She grins, invisible inside her casing, and shouts, “RETREAT! ALL DALEKS RETREAT TO POCKET UNIVERSE 2R70!”

It’s easy as pie—she’s got all the intelligence now, an entire map of the fleet as well as the information about where they originated, how they escaped, and she watches, on her map, as one by one the ships start to wink out of existence. The Daleks in the room are staring at her as well, unmoving, and she wonders for a moment if her command is really as absolute as the Doctor seems to be saying it is—and then, they disappear as well.

It’s only herself and the two Trineans left, mainly because they don’t know how to do whatever it is the Daleks just did to leave the universe. She could probably figure it out if she wanted (she’s got all the Dalek intel _right there_ ), but she just issues one final order, commanding the Daleks to stay in the pocket universe forever (she’s not sure it’ll work, but it’s a try, right?), and then waits, watching as the last Dalek ships flicker and disappear.

The Doctor is watching them, joy sliding slowly into suspicion. 

“You’re not a Dalek, are you?”

Clara’s breath catches. She doesn’t know what to say. She does know, however, what she desperately wants to say, and there’s a stupid voice at the back of her mind that’s egging her on, tossing out little things like _well, you just saved the planet together and the universe is still holding, so why don’t you give it a go?_

“Hang on.” The Doctor’s face clears. “Is it Yaz? Yaz, I’m going to be very cross with you if—”

But she’s clearly lying because her face is lighting up even as she says the word _cross,_ and she’s looking between the three Daleks with newfound appreciation in her eyes, appreciation for companions which _aren’t there,_ and Clara very nearly breaks and says something, only the Doctor beats her to the punch.

“Hang on, let me get you lot out of those costumes then.” She points the screwdriver at what Clara thinks might be Lefty (though really at this point she has no idea), and as the shell begins to grind and click open, she doesn’t waste time but does Righty as well. The she turns to Clara, and is just about to thumb the button on the screwdriver when Lefty’s case fully opens, and he falls out onto the floor of the command room, coughing.

The Doctor’s nose scrunches in confusion. “Who are you?”

Lefty coughs again, and sits up. “Name’s Orzin. Are you the Doctor?”

“’Course I am.” The Doctor’s brow is wrinkled in confusion, an expression which only deepens as Righty stumbles out of his casing as well. “Wait a sec, I don’t recognize you either.”

“I’m Rezik,” Righty says, and gestures towards Clara’s casing. “We’re her guard. She said she could help you.”

“She…?” the Doctor turns to Clara’s casing, and she’s honestly caught, torn between wanting the Doctor to open up the case and praying that she doesn’t. She has no idea what lie she can possibly make up to escape the Doctor’s scrutiny, but at the same time she’s not sure how much direct contact will jog a memory. Have they passed that limit, already? 

But before she can decide the Doctor has pointed her screwdriver, and Clara gives in to fate. There’s not much more she can do about it, anyway, because her casing is already sliding apart, revealing herself piece by piece, so she just sits back and braces for how much this is going to hurt. 

And she must be a glutton for self-punishment, because the second the last piece pulls away she stumbles out herself, straightens up, and looks right into the astonished eyes of the Doctor.

“You don’t know me—” she begins. Doesn’t hurt to get a jump on the introductions.

“Clara?”

Clara stops short. “What?”

“How can you—?” The Doctor is still staring at her, astonishment melting into joy, a grin spreading across her face, bright as the sun, and Clara is so, so confused. She takes a step back just as the Doctor takes a step forward, and watches as her grin falters.

“Hang on—how can you be alive?”

“How can you remember?” Clara shoots back wildly, because this is way too much, this shouldn’t be _possible,_ and she’s poised, waiting for reality to rip apart, only—

There’s nothing.

“I regenerated.” The Doctor takes another step forward, and reaches out, almost as if she doesn’t believe Clara to be real, almost as if she needs that touch to confirm it. Clara wants to take her hand, she almost does, but—not yet. Not when none of this makes sense, when it’s too good to be true.

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“It does, sort of.” Another step forward. She’s a meter away now, and Clara’s still waiting for the universe to implode. She's vaguely aware of her guards, watching confusedly from the side of the room, but doesn't find it in her to care. “Got my memories knocked back into me. Apparently it was temporary, that mind wipe. Pretty bad design flaw, if you think about it.”

“Well I did program it,” Clara says without thinking, and sees the smile flicker across the Doctor’s face, until it dissolves into a frown. She drops her hand, suddenly, and Clara’s heart clenches at the lost chance.

“But you’re alive,” she whispers, suspicion springing into her tone. “You can’t be alive, you had—you died, Clara, you were meant to die!”

She’s getting the part about the universe imploding too, Clara realizes. She hurries to explain.

“I did die. I mean, I’m going to die.” Quickly, she turns around and flips back her hair, revealing the 0:00 etched permanently into her skin. When she turns back around, she sees the Doctor’s pain clear and fresh as the day she watched her face the raven. It hurts to see. “I’m not trying to get out of it, promise. Only me and Ashildr thought we’d…you know, take the long way around.”

“The long way around.” The Doctor mouths the words. She appears torn between congratulating Clara or reprimanding her. “That’s breaking every rule in the book, you know.”

Clara raises an eyebrow. “Oh, so you’re suddenly fond of rules?”

“I—well—” the Doctor opens her mouth, then closes it again, struggling to find the proper words. “No, but you can’t just—”

She’s trying for outrage, but the utter relief on her face gives her away. It’s ruining her planned rebuke, and Clara can tell, and she’s about to shoot off another joke, something witty to cover the fact that she’s close to crying tears of relief herself, but instead she opens her mouth and completely falls apart.

“God, you’re still such an—an idiot, you know that?” and with that remarks she tosses the rules of the universe into the wastebasket and rushes the Doctor, pulling her into a hug tight enough to erase the past hundred years. The Doctor shuts up immediately and returns the hug with an enthusiasm that suggests she’s been waiting just as long.

And Clara can’t help but sob, even though her tears are soaking right into the lapels of the Doctor’s coat, and probably into her shirt as well. Apparently the dam that’s supposed to protect her feelings was made of nothing but spun glass, because it couldn’t take the slightest amount of pressure before shattering, and now everything she’s been stuffing away for the past hundred years has come rushing forth. It’s a miracle she doesn’t drown.

“I was n-never ready to s-say goodbye,” she tells her, her voice coming muffled from the fabric of her coat. “I couldn’t, I—I couldn’t leave well enough alone, either. I ran into you a couple times, and you never recognized me. I-I even saved your life, once.” 

“You _saved—_ ” she can feel the Doctor shaking her head against her shoulder, but her voice is too flush with happiness to carry any real disapproval. “Clara, you are the most reckless person I have ever met. You shouldn’t even be here right now. The universe could implode any minute.”

“Oh, like that’s ever stopped us.” She mumbles it, and feels the vibrations of the Doctor’s laughter. “Besides, I couldn’t just let you go off by yourself, Doctor. I know how you get.”

“You—” the Doctor pulls back, and studies her face. Something dances in her eyes—wonder, maybe. “Clara Oswald. By all rights long dead and gone, and you’re still saving me.”

Clara returns her gaze, jutting out her chin. There are still tears in her eyes. “Well, if you weren’t being so stupid I wouldn’t have to. You shouldn’t be alone, Doctor.”

“I’m not alone.”

“Then why’d you leave your companions back in that cell?”

“I—” the Doctor pauses, struggling for an answer. “I didn’t—it’s too risky. They’re too new. They don’t need to see—”

“—you losing your temper?”

The Doctor’s jaw clenches, and she can tell she’s hit the nail on the head. “Something like that.”

Clara shakes her head. “You need someone to stop you.”

“They don’t know how.”

“Then show them.”

The Doctor has no response to this. Her mouth gapes like a fish, and then she closes it, and shakes her head again. Her eyes turn soft, and, when she speaks again, her voice follows suit. “Oh, Clara. You’ve no idea how I’ve missed you.”

Clara smiles, more than a little bit sad. “I think I can imagine.”

The Doctor’s mouth twitches, as if she wants to smile, but instead she says the worst thing she could possibly say.

“You know what this means, though.”

And Clara knows what she’s talking about, of course she _knows,_ but she plays dumb anyway. “What?”

And the Doctor can tell. Her lips quirk into a small smile, the one _her_ Doctor used to wear sometimes, full of affection and far too kind for his grumpy old face. “The universe, Clara.”

She’s lived decades past her time, but in this moment she decides it's never too late to be immature. She crosses her arms, sets her jaw. “We’ve been chatting a good five minutes and it hasn’t imploded yet.”

The Doctor is still smiling, that kind, knowing smile, and _oh_ she wants to scream and tear it off her face. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it? We’re different people now, had different lives. The universe will take a few minutes to catch up. But I don’t doubt that she will. And the longer we’re together, the better we are, aren’t we?”

She cocks her head as she says this, as if asking a question, but Clara doesn’t answer because she knows it’s true. They aren’t in sync quite yet, they need a little greasing the gears—it’s been years, after all—but they’ll be back, given the time. The Doctor and Clara. A pair too good for the universe. Too dangerous to exist.

But still, she shakes her head. “Doctor, c’mon. Let’s just—”

But she can already see her arguments falling on deaf ears, because there’s no _let’s just_. You can’t just run and hide from the fabric of reality, even if you do have a time machine. They can pretend all they want, steal a few moments here and there, but their time is long done. And it’s time she moved on.

Except—

“Let’s just get tea, once in a while,” she says quickly, and the Doctor scrunches her nose in confusion. “Huh?”

“Yeah, tea.” The idea is blooming in her mind, and she doesn’t even know if it’ll work, but she can see the Doctor catching on to her train of thought, turning it over, and, as Clara explains, she begins to smile. Just a bit, but it’s there. “Nothing universe breaking. Just tea, once in a while. Short enough that the universe can’t be bothered to check in. We’ll just keep our hands clean and our noses out of trouble, and it should be okay, yeah?”

“Keeping our hands and noses clean?” the Doctor says doubtfully. “When has that ever worked for us?”

“It will,” Clara urges. “Please, you really think the universe is going to start tearing herself apart just because we decide to grab a cuppa?”

“Well…” the Doctor pretends to consider, but Clara can already see the agreement in her eyes. They’re lighting up with the idea, a grin sneaking across her face even though she’s surely trying to hide it. “If it’s just a cuppa…”

“Only once in a while.”

“And nothing dangerous.”

“Never.”

“Well, then, Clara Oswald…” The Doctor gives her a toothy grin, and Clara knows she’s won. She can hardly believe it. “I don’t see how that can hurt.”

Clara looks up at her, this new Doctor, who, now that she’s looking, actually has the same smile and the same old eyes and the same way of trying and failing to hid her emotions as the old Doctor, and feels a weight slide off her chest. She hadn’t even noticed she’d been carrying it. And they only have a few more minutes probably, or even less before the universe starts getting impatient, but she thinks _to hell with it,_ and scoops her into one last hug.

“I’m going to miss you,” she breathes, and feels the Doctor’s hair tickling her nose.

“Me too,” comes the muffled reply. “But not for too long, yeah?”

Clara sighs. “Not for too long, yeah.”

And for the first time in—oh, maybe a hundred years—she feels that maybe, just maybe, she’ll be able to stand the wait. 

————

The TARDIS materializes in the Dalek command room fifteen minutes after the Doctor has left, taking the Trineans back to what was formerly their front line. The American-style diner materializes around Clara, and she waits patiently, arms crossed, as Ashildr pokes her head out of the console room.

“You know,” she sniffs, “I was trying to get the TARDIS away from the Daleks. If I’d have known you were going to lead me _here,_ I wouldn’t have bothered.”

“Should have bothered warning me when you were about to run,” Clara counters, but there’s no real anger behind it, and in fact she’s grinning. Ashildr notices immediately.

“What’s that look on your face?” Then, before Clara can answer, her eyes widen. “You met the Doctor, didn’t you? Clara, I swear—”

“Calm down, it’s not what you think,” she says quickly, and her voice is reassuring enough that Ashildr stops, though her eyes narrow suspiciously.

“You aren’t going to tear the universe apart?”

Clara snorts. “No.”

That isn’t enough for Ashildr. She stares at Clara for several seconds more, clearly skeptical, until, after a long pause, Clara sighs and gives in.

“But we are getting tea seventy-two Tuesdays from now.”

_“Honestly—”_

**Author's Note:**

> So I love Clara, but, but I'm not used to writing her. Hopefully I've done her justice. However, I should add here that I do love Team TARDIS, and I didn't intend to portray them negatively. I was attempting to portray them through Clara's eyes, not my own. Hope you guys enjoyed, any feedback is truly appreciated!


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